Mental Connection

Standard

He said it was no big deal, “Its not like I’m psychic or anything.”
He didn’t “read minds” per se. He told her it was more a case of reading people, their body language, the way their eyes would dart around a room when they told a lie or how her eyelids dropped when desire pulsed through her. He said he simply noticed people, the tone of their voice, the rhythm of their breathing.
But he knew things about her that he did not know about others. He got feelings. Inklings. Hunches.
“What’s wrong?” he would ask, from miles away, when she felt bereft. “Please don’t worry so,” when anxiety nagged at her.
“Its a connection, I don’t know why its there,” he said. He told her this the first time he was inside her. “I have felt it since the first time I heard your voice. You and I have this . . . thing. I didn’t tell you, I was afraid I would scare you away.”
Of course, by that point, he could not have scared her away. That first time, when he sank into her, she knew it was some serious sex. There was chemistry, attraction, it was between them from the first time they met. And the sex proved that true.

A natural skeptic, she pointed out when he got something wrong. If he called her and told her he saw her wearing green when she was wearing blue, she made a point to tell him.
“Are you outside, in the sunlight?”
“No, I’m in my house! See you don’t know everything.”
But he knew enough, the important things. He could tell when she was tired, or happy or angry. Or wet.
When she had sex with others, he knew. He mentioned it only after, only in passing, only to let her know he knew. The next morning or the next night, he would make a reference to it. Not accusingly, or gloating, just to tell her, to reinforce his claim to her, strengthen their connection.
“Did you come, last night, when you were with him? You did, I think, I felt it.”
He could feel it when she came, even from hundreds of miles away. He said it was a trembling, a shiver, shaking his mind. Even when she was alone, when she masturbated, he felt it. She would hear her phone as her pussy clenched and her clit twitched.
“You are killing me, that is mine, save that for me,” a text would read. “I should be the one to make you come.”

So it was little wonder, she thought, that he would know what she wanted in bed without her telling him. He knew how she wanted to be kissed, the spot that liked to be bitten. He sensed, she thought, how she wanted to be held, to be touched.
“Lay back,” he would tell her, or roll over or turn around, and she did, without thinking, she didn’t have to.
He knew.
Was he that sexually intuitive? Was he that in tune with her pussy? Or did she want these things simply because he did them? As he bent her over, her hands against the wall, he told her to leave her boots on. Then when he stood behind her, his hips lined perfectly up with hers. She knew that was what she wanted, but really, the idea hadn’t crossed her mind before she was doing it.
Yet, when he kissed her mouth softly, sucking her bottom lip, it was perfect.
And when he shoved his tongue down her throat, it was exactly what she wanted.
That was the beauty of the whole thing, the ease of it. The rest of her life was spent in her own head, constantly thinking thinking thinking. Working, running, going, doing, fulfilling the needs of others, in fact often anticipating those needs, occupied most of her time. But when she was alone with him, there was no “have to,” it was just feel, receive, enjoy. Even giving him pleasure was to feel joy, there was no effort. No thought process or planning, she simply did what she felt.
Feelings had no time to even gel into conscious thought before he was acting.
“I want to know your body better than you do,” he told her, at the beginning. Maybe, she told herself, that is it, he has simply studied me, learned me. But that wasn’t it , she knew it. No amount of study could make a dancer perform a perfect ballet if there was no choreography. And there was none, they didn’t plan their sex, they just did it.
When they came together, there were words, yes. But not instructions, directions. Yet, his fingers slipped into the cleft of her just as his teeth clamped down on her nipple. Not hard, just right, at the perfect moment. His fingers plunged into her, just far enough, out to tease her clit, not too hard, not too fast. Perfectly.
When he was on top of her, he held back just long enough to make her hook her ankles behind his back, pulling him down, wanting his dick in her so bad she heard whimpering noises in her own throat. Then, fast, smooth, plunging into her, filling her up, he would stop, letting her feel it, experience him all the way in her, let her clutch his cock, savoring the deliciousness of that moment.
She didn’t feel she had to do anything to please him, yet he was pleased. She wondered if maybe his sexual ESP worked both ways, that he was somehow telling her, without words, what he liked. If so, she thought, let him have at it, I don’t care. If he is directing all this with his brain waves, like some Uri Geller of fucking, if he was telepathically conducting this symphony of sex, then he was Leonard Bernstein, let him do it. Whatever it was, it worked, why worry about it?
“I was just thinking about you,” he said on the phone.
“And what, pray tell, were you thinking?”
“Nothing really, you were just on my mind.” But she knew better. Because she had been thinking about him. Sitting at work, she had been fantasizing, actually. Specifically fantasizing about what it would be like to suck him while he was in her chair and she was under her desk.
“I was just thinking about how cool it would be to have sex at your work.”
“Oh were you?” She laughed, apparently a somewhat non-professional laugh, as several coworkers turned to look. “You want to come over, late maybe? After everyone leaves for the day? I can stay late, I have a key.”
“Really? That would be great, for some reason its been on my mind. Just the image of you, on your knees, in your office.”
Was she sending these thoughts or receiving them? Who cares, she thought. He feels me, I feel him, if those thoughts meet somewhere and become intertwined, does it matter whose head they originated in?
“Come over, later,” she told him. “I’ll be thinking about you.”

About Eva St. James

Hi, I'm Eva, I loves sex and pretty words. So pretty words about sex are especially lovely. Come share some of these words with me. If you see something you like, leave a comment. I'll show you mine, and you can tell me yours.

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